


Unorthodox Methods

by Anonymous



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Doctor/Patient, M/M, Underage Sex, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 14:27:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sixteen-year-old Will Graham finds himself intensely drawn to his new therapist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unorthodox Methods

Will picks at his finger, worrying a hangnail until it he feels a spot of wetness on his fingertip. He sucks the drop of blood and the sting subsides. He is sitting in the hallway across from a battered row of green lockers, called out of class fifteen minutes ago and left here on an uncomfortable folding chair. He wasn't told why, but he didn't ask, either. Will learned long ago that no good comes of asking certain questions.

A few minutes later, the sound of footsteps in the empty hall catches his attention. He looks up to see the figure approach—an unfamiliar man in a three piece suit, a folder tucked under his arm. The man smiles and opens the office door, beckoning him in wordlessly. 

“You must be William Graham,” he says in an accent Will can't place, but which is decidedly foreign. “First, allow me to apologize for my lateness. It is unconscionable, especially for a first meeting.”

He sits behind the desk. When Will doesn't settle into the chair across from him, he motions. “Sit, please, William.”

“My name is Will.” Nobody had ever called him William besides his grandmother. 

“Will, of course.” His hand is still held out, indicating the chair.

Will obeys. His hands grip the armrests and in the corner of his eye he sees a fresh spot of red on his finger. Reflectively, he brings it to his mouth. The man across from him is still smiling, just watching; his face is unreadable. It's unnerving—or it should be, Will thinks, but his smile seems benign. When the man doesn't look away, Will shifts his gaze to the potted plant just behind his head.

“I'm Dr. Lecter. Hannibal Lecter,” he says. “I'm a psychiatrist.”

“What happened to the old guidance counselor?”

“He left unexpectedly. I'm filling in temporarily until they find a permanent hire. Do you know why you were asked to come here today, Will?”

Will is quiet for a moment, then says in a voice that sounds too small, “There's nothing wrong with me.” 

“You're probably right about that.”

The response is unexpected, said with an easy certainty that Will finds surprising. Will's eyes flicker to Dr. Lecter's face, and this time he studies him. The lines on his face, faint and shallow and just around the eyes, suggest a man of about 30, though there is something in Dr. Lecter's demeanor that seems far older. He has short, light hair, high cheekbones, lips that turn up just slightly in the corners. It's an unusual set of features, but not a displeasing one. His face could even be called handsome. His clothes are impeccable, as far as Will can tell—neatly pressed, with an expensive look about them that suggests he's much more comfortable than the average school district employee.

“You're here because people who care about you are...” Dr. Lecter pauses, just a beat, “concerned. They think you may be having some problems and could benefit from a little outside guidance. It doesn't mean that anything is wrong with you.” He tilts his head just a little. He seems sincere. “But I'm not here for them, I'm here for you. We can talk about anything you want. If you'd like.”

Will bites his lip and swallows. He was never really one for talking. 

Dr. Lecter folds his hands on the desk and leans forward. “You're 16 now, are you?”

Will nods.

Despite the wordless reply, Dr. Lecter seems pleased with his progress in this attempt to engage him. “Are you excited about getting your license? Gaining more freedom to go see your friends?”

“I don't have a lot of friends,” Will says, a little too tersely. “I... don't really like kids my age.” He's not sure why he admits it out loud to this doctor he's just met, but he supposes there's a good chance that's why he's here to begin with. He knows how people see him: sullen, withdrawn, introverted. Always the new kid who will never fit in and who long ago gave up trying to.

Dr. Lecter's face betrays no emotion. His expression is placid, nonjudgmental. “What do you like, Will?”

Will sucks in a breath, fidgets, but Dr. Lecter is patient. “I like animals. Pets,” he says. “Dogs, mainly.”

Dr. Lecter makes a note in the folder in front of him. “Dogs see us for who we really are. They hold no prejudices and experience no misperceptions. They see under the facades we all have.”

Will thinks it's the opposite, really—that he can see dogs for what they really are, simple and straightforward and without the artifice people have—but he doesn't share this thought. “Do you like animals?” He asks instead.

“Oh, very much,” Dr. Lecter replies, “though unfortunately it's been a long time since I was in a position to have a pet.” 

The briefest smile flickers across Dr. Lecter's face. Though he isn't sure why, Will can't help but mirror it.

* * *

Dr. Lecter's office is spacious and fastidiously organized. The sharply tailored suits and polished appearance that seemed so incongruous in the dingy high school office here seem entirely natural. He blends into his surroundings so perfectly that it is now Will who feels out of place, but somehow coming to Dr. Lecter's world and leaving his own is a comfort. They've meet here before, several times since Will had asked to be kept on as a patient and his father, who had spent the past decade confounded by his own son, had been quick to agree.

Will perches on the edge of sofa as Dr. Lecter returns with two cups. He places one on the table in front of Will and the other opposite before settling into the chair facing Will.

“Oolong tea,” he says.

Will murmurs his thanks. He knows Dr. Lecter does this just for him. His own tea cup sits untouched their entire session. Will takes the cup in hand, warmth soaking into his skin and giving him something real to focus on. The tea smells faintly earthy, the aroma mingling with the smell of fresh flowers that sit in a vase on Dr. Lecter's desk. He takes a sip and looks up to find Dr. Lecter watching him. The steady gaze that he had found almost disconcerting during their first meeting now seems familiar. Inviting.

“When last we spoke, you were having trouble with some boys at school. How did this past week go?”

The little ebb of comfort he had felt moments earlier retreats, and suddenly Will feels almost ashamed. “It was fine. It doesn't matter.”

Dr. Lecter's eyebrows raise. “I don't mean to be argumentative, but it doesn't seem like it was fine.”

Will sets his teacup on the table and stares at it. “Two of them cornered me in the locker room and I didn't fight back. One, he came up behind me and grabbed my arm, called me a—a fag.” The word sticks in the back of his throat. “I just let them...” 

“Why didn't you fight back?”

Will shakes his head. “I don't know.”

“What did you feel when that boy grabbed you? At the moment when he called you a fag?”

Will draws in a deep breath and searches his memory. “I don't know,” he says, surprised by the fact that it's true.

Dr. Lecter stands, beckoning him to do likewise. “I'd like to try something, if it's all right with you.”

Will blinks, but stands, stepping over to the empty spot on the rug in front of Dr. Lecter. Dr. Lecter steps behind him, reaching out with one hand, gliding it down his shirt sleeve. When he reaches Will's wrist, he grasps it and pulls it smoothly behind Will's back. Startled, Will jerks, the movement just enough to cause a twinge of protest in his arm. He forces himself to relax his arm, and the warning in his muscles subsides.

“You have an extraordinary capacity for empathy, Will, but when it comes to your own emotions you have an extraordinary capacity to suppress them. So much so that at times you lose yourself.”

He isn't used to hearing Dr. Lecter's voice so low and close to his ear. It feels unfamiliar, too intimate. He arcs his neck away from the sound of his voice, but this only serves to pull awkwardly at his shoulder. The fingers around his wrist are cool and firm, pinning his hand against the small of his back.

“Think back to what happened.” Will feels Dr. Lecter shift behind him. He can tell he's closer now. “You're pinned, held from behind.”

Will squeezes his eyes shut and he can't help but remember. The boy, Mike, was tall, about Lecter's height but broader, beefier. A football player. He'd smelled like stale sweat and cheap drug store cologne, a nauseating combination matched only by the sickening feeling of his hot breath on Will's neck. He tries to recoil, but succeeds only in pulling Lecter closer as he steadies himself against the force of Will's squirming. His back is now pressed against Lecter's chest. Lecter's clothes do a good job of obscuring his physique, but pressed close like this Will can feel the hardness of Lecter's muscles and the power he could easily deploy. It's too late to simply spin around and face him, he's held too firmly now with his wrist pushed further up his back, but Will isn't sure that's what he'd do even if he could. 

“How do you feel?” Dr. Lecter's asks, as if they were simply chatting in their usual positions on the sofa.

Will makes a small noise, something between a whimper and a grunt, and moves against Lecter's chest. He remembers the fetid smell of the locker room and the feeling of humiliation as Mike laughed and shoved him forward into the lockers, but right now, that isn't what he feels at all. 

“Dr. Lecter, please,” he manages.

“How do you feel, Will?”

In an effort to brace himself against Will's struggling, Dr. Lecter is now pressed fully against Will's back. Will can feel his thigh pressed against his own, his face in his hair, so close that the feeling of his breath on his ear makes him shiver. He arches his back, but this only manages to press his ass into Lecter's lower body and his head even closer to Lecter's. It's all to easy to imagine the pink tip of Lecter's tongue darting out to taste his neck, his lips exploring the curl of his ear. His stomach pitches and he swallows hard, trying to swallow down the prickling feeling of arousal he can no longer ignore. 

Dr. Lecter was right about one thing—Will is good at suppressing his own feelings. Always has been. He's been doing it for weeks now with the doctor himself, considering his interest purely aesthetic, his feelings purely respectful. Knowing what he wants isn't right and won't ever happen, shoving the urge to fantasize about it anyway to a dark, unexplored corner of his mind. But what Dr. Lecter doesn't know is that Will isn't good with touch. All of it, the carefully constructed fiction, the measured distance, crumbles when Dr. Lecter touches him. It's not thought but a torrent of pure feeling, ripping through all rationality and inundating the places he's kept secret.

It's all Will can do to force his thoughts back to the exercise at hand, to remember what he's supposed to be remembering. _”Were you looking at me?”_ Mike had said, incredulous and casually menacing before he'd grabbed him. “ _What are you, some kind of_ fag?” Mike's friend had snorted as if it were the funniest thing he'd heard all week. “ _You're a fucking fag, aren't you?_ ” Then he'd laughed, sharp and derisive. 

Will is panting, forcing unsteady breath in and out of his lungs. He's still painfully aware of his body and its unbidden reaction to Dr. Lecter's touch. His only cognizant thought now is that is he's glad Dr. Lecter can't see the proof of his effect.

Then Dr. Lecter says low and slow and directly into the shell of his ear, “Are you a fag, Will?” But he doesn't laugh.

Will gasps. “N—no.” His head feels too heavy but he resists letting it lull backward against Lecter's shoulder. His shoulder burns now and he wants free, but he doesn't Lecter to ever stop touching him. He feels the frustration and confusing gripping at his chest as firmly as Lecter's hand around his wrist. “I mean... I don't know. I—I like men, why does it fucking matter?” he grits his teeth and shouts it out in one rush of breath, louder than he intended. He's keenly aware of the silence that envelops the room immediately afterwards.

Suddenly he feels his arm freed from behind his back and he stumbles forward a little. Will turns, his heart still racing, to find Dr. Lecter looking the same as always, a preternatural coolness in his expression and stance. The only thing that even suggests something out of the ordinary happened is the slightly displaced lock of hair on his forehead.

“How do you feel now?” He says, his voice as unruffled as his appearance.

Will has to think about it. “Good,” he says, though he doesn't elaborate on why. It could have been cathartic, even, expect he's still too focused on the lingering, faintly musky smell of Dr. Lecter on his clothes and the way his cock is half-hard and pressed against the front of his pants. 

“You have to allow yourself to feel these things. You must be assertive about who you are and what you want. They will never do it for you. Do you understand?”

Will nods. He understands, or he thinks he does.

“Do you know what you want, Will?”

“Yes,” Will says, so softly he can barely hear the sound of his own voice. He curls his hands into loose fists to quiet them and resist the impulse to reach out toward Dr. Lecter. “But it doesn't matter. I can't have what I want.”

“Why not?”

Will's eyes search the room, looking at anything but Dr. Lecter's face. “Because it's not appropriate. Because society wouldn't condone it.”

“Is that what dictates your choices? What society condones and doesn't condone? It wasn't so long ago that society wouldn't have approved of your attraction to men. Do you think that makes your attraction wrong? Would that have kept you from acting on it?”

“No, but this is different.” Will's senses are still overwhelmed; he knows he's not thinking quite right but, strangely, he doesn't care. 

“How?”

“Because you wouldn't condone it.”

Will catches a shift in Lecter's expression in the corner of his eye. His gaze flickers to Lecter's face, searching. 

“I think you may find me more open-minded than you presume,” Dr. Lecter says, and Will thinks he sees an edge of something dangerous in his eyes.

He's trembling; he can feel the unsteadiness in his legs and the way his fingers twitch against his palms. When Lecter lifts an eyebrow, questioning, Will springs, lust and want uncoiling faster than reason can react. He lifts his hands to thread fingers through Lecter's hair, urging him forward. Lecter responds, tilting his head down to reach Will's, finding his mouth and kissing his lower lip. When Will moans, Lecter uses the opportunity to advantage, sliding his tongue into Will's mouth and exploring with a lazy sort of hunger. 

Will keeps kissing him, or perhaps lets himself be kissed; Will may have been too bold, but it is Lecter who seems certain of what he wants. He leans into Lecter until his cock is pressed against Lecter's thigh. Lecter moves his leg just enough to send a spark of friction shooting up from his groin then breaks the kiss and regards him with a small smile.

“I want... I want you to fuck me,” Will breathes. It still sounds reckless and crazy despite the fact that not thirty seconds ago Lecter was tracing the contours of Will's mouth with his tongue.

“Have you done it before?”

Lecter's even, matter-of-fact tone would be a little maddening if Will weren't so completely consumed by his own feeling of need. “No,” he admits. Then adds, “Not with someone else.”

This seems to please Lecter. Will wonders for a moment if he's imagining Will alone in his bedroom, pressing his own fingers inside his body, experimenting, preparing for this. The thought only makes him harder and his hips jerk involuntarily against Lecter's leg.

Lecter kisses him again, just once, then grips the hem of Will's shirt and sweeps it over his head. As he reaches for the zipper of Will's pants, he asks, “Do you trust me?” even though he doesn't need to.

“Yes,” Will says as Lecter pushes his pants and underwear over his hips to pool at his ankles. 

“Good. Wait there.” He indicates the sofa and Will obeys, lying down with his back against the arm. He strokes himself absentmindedly as Lecter steps away for a moment. It does nothing to calm his racing heart but it does give him a moment to collect himself and try to will away the fluttering in the pit of his stomach. Lecter is back quickly. He deposits something on the sofa then removes his tie and unbuttons his shirt with business-like efficiency. Soon he's naked, and Will lets himself stare. He wants to trace every ridge of smooth muscle along Lecter's torso with his tongue, kiss along the curve of his iliac crest to the thatch of hair above his cock, take that cock in his mouth and suck it until Lecter comes. 

But Lecter is on him before he can act on the urge, and he melts into the sofa as Lecter presses him down with a kiss. Lecter has something in his hands and Will realizes he's preparing himself, slicking his cock with lube. He whimpers, aching, and Lecter urges him to spread his thighs just a little more. He feels pressure, then a circular motion around the tight ring of muscle between his legs.

“Good boy.” Lecter praises him in a soothing tone, his fingers still following their slow circuit around his entrance. “Relax,” he says.

Will exhales and tries to quiet his nerves. The massage is somehow both too much and not nearly enough. He writhes against the sofa murmuring something even he can't quiet understand.

“Yes, like that. Good,” Lecter says, as several of his slicked fingers breach Will's hole.

Will cries out at the invasion, bucks his hips in a wanton attempt to fuck himself. Lecter curls his fingers once or twice, and then they're gone. Will whimpers again at the loss, but Lecter is not withholding. Seconds later he feels the tip of Lecter's cock nudge his opening and he wraps his legs around Lecter's waist.

“Good boy.” Lecter says again, whispering it directly into his ear. 

Then Will feels the hot slide of Lecter's cock entering him, all at once in one long, slow motion. The stretch burns deliciously and he pushes back against it, wanting more, wanting all of Lecter all at once. But Lecter is much more control, much less wild, and sets a pace that to Will feels agonizing. Lecter's eyes flutter shut and his lips part just slightly, enough for thin, reedy notes of pleasure to escape his throat. Will licks his lips and throws his head back, letting Lecter ride him until he stutters and moans and comes, his cock pulsing in Will's hole until he's spent himself completely.

Without pulling out, Lecter wraps his hand around Will's cock, still hard and aching and glistening with a bead of precome, and strokes him. Will's wanted this for weeks, wanted it desperately for the last hour, so it doesn't take long. Soon orgasm washes over him, coming in hot jets on his stomach and clenching around Lecter's cock. Lecter keeps stroking him and the intensity of it makes him wail, slick fingers rubbing over his sensitized frenulum and head. Finally Lecter releases him and pulls out. Will's body protests the loss with a shudder, but his limbs feel pleasantly heavy and his breathing is slowly returning to normal.

Lecter disappears again and returns with a towel. He crouches besides the sofa and dabs at the cooling mess on Will's torso. With his free hand, he pets Will's hair and for the first time in longer than he can remember, Will really smiles.

“I didn't even make you dinner first. How very rude of me.”

Will blinks his eyes open to see one corner of Lecter's mouth curved into a wry smile. He thinks it may be the first time he's heard Dr. Lecter make light of anything.

“Well, there's always next time,” he says as he leans forward to press a kiss on Will's forehead.


End file.
